


Tragedy Cannot Keep Me From You

by HollowMachines



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Some angst, Titanic - Freeform, brief reference to real people, let's pretend it was okay to be gay in public in 1912, not the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowMachines/pseuds/HollowMachines
Summary: How hard it is, to set foot on a ship of dreams, only to have it turn to nightmares.How hard it is, to take his hand and love him, only to let him go.
Relationships: Collins/Farrier (Dunkirk)
Kudos: 11
Collections: Periodic AU





	Tragedy Cannot Keep Me From You

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this is a Titanic AU. No, not the movie (which I've never seen), the actual historical event (which I'm very interested in).
> 
> I've always had a weird thing about AU's for some reason, although I'm more comfortable reading them than writing them. But I was reading a new journal I'd bought about the Titanic recently when this prompt came up, so it was on my mind and I thought, why not?
> 
> I didn't have nearly enough time to fix this up into something I'm totally happy with, but I wanted to get something out.

He checks his watch again, swiping droplets from the glass. Just after two in the morning.

The ship's bow lurches further down into the water and he stumbles as his wet palms slide from the rail, saved from an icy plunge only by Collins catching his arm. They’re both shuddering from head to toe in the chilling air of a mid-April night, barely warmed by the crowd of bodies or the thin layers of hastily thrown on overcoats.

An iceberg, they’d said. Hardly felt across the ship, leaving bits of ice on the deck that Farrier had watched passengers kicking around playfully when his curiosity had brought him to the upper deck. He’d had no illusions it was something minor, once he'd caught sight of the officers hustling about. It had been a quick decision to fetch Collins from his cabin below, barely able to explain the ill feeling sitting in his stomach as the ship lulled to a stop. Caution is what kept him alive through the fighting in Transvaal, after all.

Now they wait on a sinking ship, illuminated by the flares rocketing up into the sky like man-made stars, revealing a soft horizon and haunting ocean plagued by ice. Skin is bitten by cold and churning ocean spray and he reaffirms his footing on the sloped deck as he’s knocked about by a passerby.

In a strange way he’s surpassed panic, gone right to overwhelmed calm. A ship made of dreams was too bold, perhaps. If he thought as much of God as his mother does, he could perhaps imagine this was some sort of divine intervention; a swatting down of man’s hubris.

 _Mother_ , he thinks to himself as he watches women climbing shakily into lifeboats, swallowed by life vests and night coats. He’d hoped to return to London after his trip to New York. She’ll be expecting him back in a few months time. Now, possibly never again. His last telegram had been so reassuring and pleasant, too. He wants to beg her forgiveness for the deception, but it’s out of his hands.

Such as it is, he has been divested of any chance at a life with the man in his arms. Collins had swept across his path by complete accident, and yet they’d spent little time apart since boarding, as if they’d simply been old friends reuniting after long years apart.

A draw like fate, if he could be so bold as to imagine that. Farrier has not shied away from much in his life, but the sudden flurry of sensations not unlike _infatuation_ towards another man had certainly come as a shock. Yet Collins never shied away from his poorly hidden intent either, and that, perhaps, is why Farrier clings so tightly to him now, fearful of what will happen if he lets go of this rare thing.

"How long ago did we meet?” he asks as if there's any way he couldn't possibly remember; as if the world isn’t collapsing around them. "Where was it?"

Collins gives him an incredulous look, then with a disbelieving sigh, replies, "It was Southampton, in that pub near the docks. You were going on about wanting to fly an aeroplane. I thought you were mad."

It feels like a lifetime already, and yet they’ve had no time at all. Farrier smiles anyways.

"Right, then surely there's no possible way I could have fallen in love with you in that time."

There's the faintest hint of a smirk on Collins' face. "It would be a bit foolish."

"Absolutely. But my mates did always say I was a fool."

"I'm starting to think you are. So then I must be, too."

The band plays resolutely over distressed voices and the slosh of frigid water creeping up to devour more of the deck. Frozen hands clamour for the railings and each other, bodies bustling for the boats and for purchase and for one another. No place for smiles and laughter here.

Collins is transfixed on the murky black below, so Farrier cups his cheek and turns his head until their lips meet in a soft kiss. His palm is scorching against cold flesh, drawing them into a numb press of lips, deep and impassioned and uncaring of prying eyes.

The world has been violently awoken to its arrogance this night. What else is there for them to fear?

Another lifeboat is beginning to crank down, the gears shrieking with the cold and wet. When Collins pulls away he's panting heavily, clinging to the last bit of warmth between them as his shivering fingers dig deep into Farrier's sleeves. They could easily conceal themselves in the clouds of breath that lingers between their lips.

"Bold of you," Collins whispers, breathless.

To finally be this close, Farrier memorizes the shining blue eyes and that forlorn smile that had only a day ago been bright and lively, and the way his face glows in the dying light of the ships' lamps.

"I’d be a fool not to take the chance." Farrier holds him close, smooths hands down his collar, runs pliant fingers through the flop of golden hair falling into his face. "In case we never see each other again."

With a sigh and a squeeze of fingers, Collins says calmly, "We'll be going together, now."

Farrier sets an open palm over his chest, where he can feel the thunder of Collins' heartbeat, and smiles solemnly. It's already so warm and familiar, so comforting. He wants to hold on forever, but he could never forgive himself if that thrumming beneath his hand stilled.

"Don’t hate me for this." He presses the words feather-light against Collins' cheek. "Mind your head."

Just as Collins turns a questioning gaze on him, Farrier musters what energy his frozen muscles can bear, and shoves.

Collins loses his footing and stumbles back into the lowering lifeboat, landing hard on the wooden seats among a crowd of flustered women and children. It isn’t far to fall, but Farrier still winces at the pained look on his face as he regains his senses, struggling to get his arms under himself as the boat continues to crank lower, unhindered.

“Don’t think poorly of him," Farrier calls down to one of the women aboard looking back up at him in disbelief. “I’m sending him off.”

“Farrier!”

Collins fights to his feet, but hands pull at him as the small boat sways precariously and he’s forced back down. His eyes are wide and wet, and there’s anger burning in the red of his face, almost bearing teeth like he’s ready to beg and curse all at once.

Farrier can only smile with relief as the lifeboat lowers to the water with a hollow thunk, and ignores the mutters around him.

"No, Thomas!" He hears Collins yelling. "You can't do this to me!"

He keeps fighting and losing against the hands holding him, tears glinting at the corners of his eyes. The sight, that desperate lilt of his name on his love's lips makes pressure build behind Farrier's eyes too. A pained, yearning part of him begs to reach out, to jump, to turn back time and keep Collins close.

Only rationale keeps him sure-footed and sane watching him go.

A promise of, “I’ll find you” dies in his throat. He’s not so heartless as to torture him with false hope.

Instead, "Best of luck, Collins."

The lifeboat sails off with a hurried slap of oars, and he can still see Collins watching him, still yelling his name until his voice goes hoarse, lost among all the noise.

Farrier grips tight to the rail as the ship tilts more and more, muscles straining until his blood is the only hot sensation pumping through his veins, and cold sweat clings to his skin.

Peering up the deck towards the rising stern, he winces at the sight of the ship's propellers lurching out of the water. The band has finally gone quiet, leaving on the angry groans of metal, eerily echoing across the ocean’s endless expanse. Nothing in sight but ice flows and waves and stars, far from any hope of rescue. The world has never been so vast.

 _What a lonely place to die_.

With one arm still wrapped around the rail for balance he checks his watch once more. 2:18 in the morning. The deepest pits of night. Not that it matters now; time is nothing but a devourer.

Deafening shrieks of metal and the ship jolts violently. Screams and yells start up all over again from all around. Waves sweep unsuspecting passengers into the icy waters as the deck climbs higher and higher, every muscle straining in Farrier’s numbing arms for support. A mighty creak and snap like gnashing teeth, metal and rivets and wood splinter as the stern of the ship suddenly drops, tearing a horrible gash as it rips itself apart under its own weight. The stern falls back to the ocean with a tsunami of water and the guttural groan of an animal in its death throes. The bow rocks violently, and that’s enough for Farrier to finally lose his footing, and with a stunted cry he’s tossed into the frigid Atlantic along with the rest.

It’s a million needles to the skin, forcing any breath out of his lungs the moment his body goes numb under the waves. It hurts, everything hurts. Getting his legs under him as he tumbles with the surf and suction of the ship only yards away is like wading through sand, but somehow he rights himself and manages to get his head back above water.

Gulping in icy sea air, his whole body is already going numb, shivering violently, barely able to keep him afloat. Waves sweep him away from the wreck and he watches speechless and half-delirious from the cold as she’s swallowed whole. All around passengers break their silence; most of which are the men who’d still been aboard with him, who’d held themselves as stoically as they could until now.

It’s that same stoicism that had given him the courage to let Collins go. 

Hours ago Farrier was warm with him in his arms, drinking and smoking and dancing. Collins had been guarded about his reasons for leaving Scotland; maybe it was work, like Farrier, maybe it was the adventure, maybe it was family. Something in the steeliness of his demeanour when Farrier had asked makes him wonder if perhaps Collins was running from something. But it didn't matter. A late night discussion on the promenade had already heard suggestions of travelling together when they made it to New York, and Collins was keen on the idea.

All too eager. All too hopeful.

Now he only thinks of survival, facade torn away as he tries to push unresponsive limbs to action. All around is screaming, drilling against his senses. If his teeth weren’t chattering so aggressively, he may have been yelling too.

But his strength is sapped, and he can only float in awe of this great beast as she disappears below the waves like a dead weight, stirring the ocean all around, dragging in and washing away. Her lights have gone already, and in the dark she disappears beneath the waves, taken by a merciless sea, down and down until the water finally settles, and the only sound left is those flailing for their lives in the water.

The cold burns, salt water splashes into his mouth and digs into his clothes and scalds his skin. It’s a losing battle to stay alive.

Soon, there’s nothing left in him, until even breathing is painful and demanding. Numb limbs barely keep him afloat, and he drifts with the sloshing waves with eyes to the sky, to the star array of light, uncaring of what goes on below.

God help him, for the first time in his life, he _prays_ , and he means it.

It's unclear how long he floats there in frozen apathy.

In the wander of his thoughts, he ends up back in England at his countryside homestead, listening to his mother cooking until the house smells of food, and he can watch the little brook that trickles behind the house, where frogs and tadpoles fester.

The painful ache in his legs is not unlike what he'd get hiking the old path into the woods, all the way up to that lonely mound high above the town, where he'd walk on temperate summer mornings and cool evenings, surrounded by birdsong and cicadas and the fresh smell of grass. 

He goes into London proper for work, where it’s always a jarring shock of modern noise and the stench of industry, but there too was home, and he’d give anything to be there now, where it was hot and dry.

Then back up north, and down to the little pub with the inn rooms upstairs and the crabapple trees in the courtyard out back, where one of the young ladies was sweet on him. It was there that his cousin had found him to tell him his uncle had wired him about a proposition for opportunities in America.

He wonders if Collins — if _Jack_ would like it back home. He never asked if he'd been. Maybe it wouldn't compare to how he describes the idyllic Highland wilderness.

Farrier didn't know nearly enough about him yet to be satisfied. He wants more time. They _need_ more time.

Water slaps behind him. Frantic voices, then a hand is suddenly tugging at his arm. He rolls over as he’s dragged along, only vaguely aware of himself, until he’s freed from his icy tomb and onto the slippery underside of a capsized lifeboat. In his wearied state it's impossible to make out any of the faces around him.

No, not true. One of the men is an officer from the ship, and he’s the one leaning over him now, shaking him, letting droplets of frozen water drip from his own sopping wet uniform and hair.

“Come on, man. Stay awake now.”

It’s harder than it should be. Every inch of his body screams for peace, his mind rolling in a haze. But he forces his eyes open, staring up at the faces hovering over him, and those tantalizing stars above. Somewhere he hears crying, despairing mutters and panicked breathing. Someone is praying.

If there was ever a time to start believing in God...

A hand strikes his cheek none-too-gently, stinging fire against his skin, and he winces.

“Eyes open, lad,” the officer rasps again.

Ah, he hadn’t realized they’d closed again. Out of habit he feels an urge to check his watch, as if time has suddenly regained meaning, or perhaps just to see how long he’s outstayed his welcome in this world. It’s cracked, anyhow, hands as still as he assumes he’ll be, soon.

He’d seen men die in the war, but never has it been him lying here, waiting. Somehow, his panic has gone, leaving him almost calm. Perhaps he's just too numb, in shock, already well on his way.

_Better him than Collins._

Small shavings of ice are forming on his body, in his hair. His skin is deathly pale, muscles burning with uselessness.

That persistent officer is back over him now, shaking him with trembling hands and frost-tinged cheeks. His eyes are shot.

“Help is coming. Stay with us.”

“It’ll be hours, sir,” A quiet voice says from somewhere behind him. “We’re going to freeze before—”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Bride.” The officer again—Farrier suddenly recalls his name: Lightoller. They’d exchanged a few words in passing upon boarding, though it’s likely the man doesn’t remember. It’s trivial now.

Farrier can muster enough strength to turn his head, and the sight is just endless ocean and night, and the distant dotting of the lanterns and lifeboats.Their once great treasure of a new age, a feat of engineering and human ingenuity, gone in hours, swallowed by the sea. It’s almost laughable, or perhaps he’s going hysterical.

His skin prickles and burns, clouds of breath shallow and suffocating. When he tries to move his fingers, it's stabbing pain, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Think of home, men. We'll make it yet.” Lightoller mutters, staring off where his titan of a ship once sailed, then back to Farrier like he can’t comprehend her absence any longer. “You have someone?"

He thinks of his mother back home. His mates. His uncle in America. 

Collins, with golden hair and a smile as bright as the sun, the soft press of lips he wants to taste forever, a solid body he wishes to have in his arms again, and explore every inch of. Safe out there in the dark somewhere, fearing the worst, angry and bereaved. If only Farrier could find him.

He manages to smile, a painful pull at the muscles.

“An angel. He's waiting for me.”

Despite his best efforts, the slow thump of his heart and fine sway of the boat lulls him into unconsciousness.

* * *

It’s a shock to awaken again to light rather than some dark void.

He spends a good amount of time in the dizzy blur of his mind trying to understand. Surely this isn't what death is. 

No, he’s still on his back, but it’s no longer the wet curve of the overturned lifeboat, but rather the flat hardwood of a deck. Muddled voices from every direction assault his ears and a cool wind caresses his skin. Where there's the scent of ocean and ozone, he also smells tea and biscuits, and the stench of damp clothes and huddled masses. There’s extra weight covering him, a scratchy fuzz he feels through the tingle of reanimated fingers. A blanket. Ah, and his head is pillowed on something soft.

When the spots in his vision dance away, he’s greeted with the sky, dusted by hues of pink and orange and blue. A crash of waves makes his heart leap until he realizes they’re distant, no longer encroaching, threatening him. Even as he lies there, his body recalls the gentle rocking of the lifeboat, rolling his insides until he starts to feel a hint of sickness.

It’s morning. He’s on a ship. He's cold but not frozen. He’s alive.

Each subsequent thought strikes like a gong against the slog of his consciousness. His breath catches like he’s only just realized he’s breathing at all. If he could summon the energy to do anything other than lie there, he may finally shed a tear. As it is he can only groan from deep in his throat and blink wildly, rolling his head to the side as if it weights a tonne.

“Farrier?”

Oh. That voice.

What has he done to deserve this?

Haloed by the rising sunlight, Collins comes into view above him and hands cup his face gently, rubbing needed warmth back into his cheeks. A cloud of hot breath strike Farrier's skin and his chest swells, heart thundering back to life.

For just a moment, this horrible night—from the screams to the pain to the terror—is gone.

Collins’ eyes are bloodshot but alert, relief washing over his features, and there’s that wonderful smile back on his face. Farrier wants to touch him so badly, but his damned arms can’t find their strength.

“You’re alive,” he croaks through blue-tinted lips, repeating it with breathless relief.

Brows shooting upwards, Collins only nods, making a strange noise like he’s holding his breath.

Farrier pries his eyes away and stares up at the sky. “ _I’m_ alive.”

Damp hair tickles Farrier’s face as Collins leans down to crush cold lips to his. He's a furnace, and his heartbeat is so thunderous that Farrier pushes up into him as best he can, uncaring of their spectacle. Hot breath burns the inside of his mouth, and he makes a strangled noise in his throat, begging his body to respond, desperate to touch, to get hands on him.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Collins whispers against his lips.

He lingers close, shuddering from cold and exhaustion. Farrier eye's roam over every visible inch of him and finds him spent, drained of colour and vibrancy, worn down to the bone. Yet despite it all there’s a beautiful smile forcing itself across Collins’ face, and it’s Farrier who wants to cry at the sight.

"You would have died," he says quietly, raw from his aching throat.

Collins is unperturbed. "I was prepared for it."

"Maybe, but I wasn't."

Something flashes through his eyes, a lightning like Collins wants to be angrier than he is, but it dissipates along with all the tension in his shoulders. The moment Farrier gets feeling back in his limbs, he's pulling Collins into a crushing embrace, and into another kiss.

He’s been gifted his life, and had this treasure returned to him. He'll not regret anything. Not even stepping foot on that ill-fated ship, when it had brought them together.

**Author's Note:**

> There's little snippets of historical accuracy in here, but we're ignoring the fact that Farrier should very likely have died from exposure.
> 
> This is the kind of AU idea that deserves a full, multi-chapter story with proper build-up, but I didn't have the time, and I'm already working on another long fic. Maybe one day I'll come back to this and make something bigger of it.


End file.
